Amnesia
by piaffe417
Summary: Sometimes she forgets that he's like that. Sometimes he forgets that she isn't Superwoman. Postep for Proud Flesh.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note – Just when I think the muse has starved to death, Rene Balcer and team provide great sustenance. Post ep (and spoilers!) for "Proud Flesh." Don't own them, just borrowing for a sec.

_Do you suffer from long-term memory loss?  
I don't remember...  
You sing the same old verse  
Stick like glue for better or worse  
_"Amesia" - Chumbawamba

Sometimes she forgets that he lives for his job. Sometimes she forgets that his overworked and detail-oriented mind doesn't always leave room for the subtle nuances of emotion, of matters unexplainable by the standards of logic. Sometimes she even forgets that he's the most competitive person she's ever met – which is quite an admission considering that she grew up as the tomboy in an Irish-Catholic police family, always in the thick of it with her siblings.

But every time she forgets, every time she lets her guard down far enough to begin feeling as though maybe – _just maybe_ – he's beginning to relax and let the truth come to him without beating it out of the bushes, he reminds her that he isn't that way. He reminds her that he's Bobby Goren and he lets nothing get in his way.

_Nothing._ Not even her.

And as she lowers her weapon, silently surrendering it to the uniformed officer who has materialized out of nowhere by her side, she thinks one singular thought: _Damn him._ She has just killed a man and even the knowledge that she did it in order to protect others (the task of every good police officer) doesn't assuage the shock and guilt that have begun to flood her stomach, weakening her knees and causing every part of her to tremble uncontrollably. But part of the trembling is from anger, she knows – anger at her partner. He was with her when she fired but he has since left her side to chase after Jonas Slaughter. He never even asked if she was okay before he left.

She almost wants to laugh when she realizes that she isn't angry at him for leaving, though. She almost laughs because it suddenly occurs to her that she's angry at him for making her forget that he's like this, for making her forget that when he's in the throes of a cat and mouse game, he only has eyes for the mouse and she fades into the background.

It's the little things that trigger her unique form of amnesia – the way he'll bring her coffee without her asking him to (no cream, heavy sugar) or the way he smiles softly at her when she makes a wisecrack about the case they're working on, just a quick one to let her know that he's heard and he appreciates a brief lightening of the mood. It's the way he'll defer all technological queries to her with an embarrassed tilt of his head, then lean in close over her shoulder to view the computer screen – so close that she catches the faint whiff of cigarette smoke that clings to him, a subtle reminder of his sometime-vice. And it's the way he consults her with his eyes when he's seeking approval on a theory or wants to do some further investigating on his own but doesn't want to offend her by leaving her behind.

_Bastard._

She's escaped the clutch of uniformed officers and the prying eyes of the media (who are currently being distracted by ADA Ron Carver) and is leaning against one of the courthouse pillars when he jogs back up the stairs to find her. Her head is tilted back so that the cold marble aches acutely against her skull and her eyes are closed but she'd recognize his footsteps anywhere, their heaviness belying his significant size and the sliding sound of shoe leather against cement hinting at his jerky and sometimes awkward gait.

She forgets his true nature but she can pick his footsteps out of a crowd – how ironic.

"Eames?" Bobby reaches out a tentative hand to cup her elbow. Her arms are folded squarely across her chest and she intends to keep them there at least until her heart rate slows a bit more.

His voice is apologetic enough that she almost wants to crack open an eye to see the worried expression she knows that he's wearing on his face, but she resists the temptation and merely replies by saying, "I'm fine, Bobby" in her driest tone.

He inhales slowly and she can tell he isn't buying her bluff. He's no doubt adopted his traditionally uncomfortable "I don't know what to do with my arms right now" stance in front of her as he finally tells her, "It… it was a variation on suicide-by-cop. Jonas Slaughter set you up – well, not _you_ per se… It, uh, could have been anybody."

He pauses and she can feel his gaze drop to his feet even though she still isn't looking. He adds, "It could have been me."

That gets her to open her eyes and lift her head and she can tell that the suddenness of movement (and no doubt her facial expression) has alarmed him. She meets his gaze: "It wasn't you."

His eyes drop low, a submissive gesture that shows guilt and remorse. "I know."

She's about to open her mouth again, about to call him on the carpet for abandoning her in order to pursue his mental sparring match with Jonas Slaughter, when Carver very obviously loses his grip on the media and a sea of flashbulbs and reporters is suddenly flooding towards her, questions echoing between the pillars as they rise and fall in waves.

"Detective Eames, may we have a word?"

"Detective, did you have any indication that this might occur?"

"Detective, how do you feel?"

"Detective Eames, what do you make of Chase Slaughter's dying declaration?"

She's frozen in place, watching the wave approach and waiting for it to overwhelm her, when the hand cupping her elbow tightens its grip and pulls her away from the pillar. The next thing Alex Eames knows, she is being shielded from the cameras and the questions by a very large – and very protective – Bobby Goren, who ushers her quickly down the stairs to the SUV they parked outside upon arrival. His legs are much longer than hers, but his momentum buoys her along so that she doesn't think her feet even touch the ground and, before she can even catch a breath, he's put her in the passenger seat of the Explorer, secured the door, and is making his way around the milling reporters to get to the driver's side.

And the moment he slides into the seat, slamming and locking the door behind him, she forgets to be angry with him, not only because he's just rescued her, but because in his haste to escape, he's folded himself into a very uncomfortable position, his knees wedged into the dashboard by the seat and steering wheel, which are adjusted for her own small stature. He couldn't shift the car into drive if he wanted to, let alone work the pedals.

Bobby's face is helpless for a few silent seconds as his brain sorts out his predicament and she doesn't dare laugh until his left hand finds the seat adjustment controls and he's able to slide it back into the correct position for his long-legged frame. Once he's done that and has begun to adjust the level of the steering column, she lets go, the laughter flooding out of her with such force that it frightens her – and it's only when the tears come and her guffaws become sobs that she realizes it's her body's way of releasing all of her pent-up emotions and fears.

As they drive back towards One Police Plaza, Bobby reaches out his right hand and places it on her shoulder while she blows her nose into a Kleenex she found in her jacket pocket. It's one of those gestures that makes her forget about his logical bent and his ultra-competitive streak. It makes her forget why she was angry with him in the first place and she knows that when they reach their office, he'll sit with her in the car as long as it takes for her to compose herself, then he'll ride up in the elevator with her and he'll help her pretend that nothing is amiss, that she is (as always) just one of the guys.

It's things like that that remind her of why he's her best friend. Call it selective amnesia, but Alex Eames figures that, as long as she remembers all of those good things, it isn't as important to remember the other stuff.

FIN


	2. Chapter 2

A/N – Turns out there was more there than I thought – this coda kind of wrote itself and I had no control over it (but I'm still up for reviews if you're willing). Bobby's verion of events.

Sometimes he forgets that she isn't Superwoman. Sometimes he forgets that it isn't in her nature to threaten or bully – and certainly not to harm or kill. Sometimes he even forgets that she feels things deeply within her soul, so masked are her true feelings beneath a façade of bravado, sarcasm, and dry wit.

But whenever he forgets this about her, whenever he finds that he is treating her like "one of the guys" with an air of unconscious carelessness, something always happens to remind him and he finds himself bolted awake as though suddenly roused from a deep sleep. In the stark light of revelation and reminder, she always looks smaller and more delicate to him, as though she is made of glass rather than iron, and his heart plummets to the bottom of his gut as though the cable suspending it has snapped.

It happens in a split second. A melee. Shouts. Screams too. Then the pop, pop, pop of bullets being fired. And when the silence shrouds them, Chase Slaughter is dead on the courthouse steps and Bobby Goren's partner, Alex Eames, is holding the weapon that killed him.

Yet his amnesia is so set – he has so solidly forgotten that she isn't the brash "balls to the wall" cop that everyone sees on the surface – that he doesn't hesitate, doesn't stop to see that the reality of what she has just done is registering on her taut face. Instead, he plunges forward and chases down Jonas Slaughter, not wanting the case to slip through his fingers.

It's minutes later that he remembers her – sees her stark expression from moments before in his mind's eye - and realizes: _I'm a bastard_.

She makes it so easy for him to forget that there is a living, breathing, _feeling _woman behind the badge with the way that she takes the lead in the interrogation room, not afraid to dive into the "bad cop" role with relish so that he can sit back and make observations unnoticed. She surveys crime scenes with a grim but not squeamish expression and cuffs prisoners with the force of a person three times her size. She's coldly efficient with suspects and never afraid to disagree with anyone – especially her own partner when he's off on a tangent.

And so he forgets that there is a soft side to her – or maybe he has selective amnesia when it comes to that.

At any rate, he remembers now as his long legs take him up the courthouse steps two and three at a time, eyes seeking her out amongst the crowd of reporters, uniformed officers, and lawyers and not finding her. He spots her weapon in the hands of another officer, who has secured it pending the obligatory investigation, but her petite form is nowhere to be found. Panic sets in momentarily and his stomach drops with a sickening lurch as he scans above the crowd for any signs that she has been escorted away by some of their fellow officers or by ADA Ron Carver – but then he sights Carver in the midst of the chaos and the attorney's eyes quickly tell him that he too has lost sight of Eames.

Pushing through the wall of people and into the clear, Bobby shifts his gaze to the side and inhales sharply with relief as he spots his partner leaning up against one of the pillars, her head tilted back against the cold stone and eyes closed. She looks tiny and pale and the guilt sets in again as he approaches her. How could he forget that she's a living, breathing, _feeling_ woman? How could he forget the side of her he saw on the day that she was forced to read her own letter requesting a new partner in open court and in front of him? How could he forget her shaking, apologetic voice when she tried to explain that she didn't mean it, that she liked being his partner?

How could he forget that partnership meant that what hurt her hurt him too?

He stands before her and, though her eyes don't open, he can tell that she has registered his presence. Still, so shaken is he by his frantic search effort, he reaches out to make contact, to prove with total assurance that she is real and standing before him, his large hand engulfing her elbow.

"Eames?" He makes her name a question and feels her blood racing beneath his palm.

"I'm fine, Bobby," is her toneless response and she doesn't even crack an eye open.

He forgets that she's quick to close herself off when something hurts her – a character flaw they both share – and that in the time it took him to get back to her, the door has closed in his face. His hand falls away from her and he suddenly feels acutely aware of his significant size, his body suddenly awkward as his mind races to find a way to reach her, to apologize for his amnesia and his poor behavior. He feels like a novice actor who doesn't know what to do with his hands or how to stand and ultimately he settles on what Eames would most likely have labeled "a cheesy Joe Friday approach," going with "Just the facts, ma'am."

"It… it was a variation on suicide-by-cop," he tells her, fumbling. Facts are all he has at this point and facts have never let him down. Facts are easier to remember than emotions. Still, he feels like he's rambling as he continues, "Jonas Slaughter set you up – well, not _you_ per se… It, uh, could have been anybody."

"It could have been me," he concludes, gaze falling to their feet.

Her reaction is swift and pointed: "It wasn't you."

He wants to register a thousand apologies and fall at her feet and beg her forgiveness, but he knows that she'll only accept validation at this point and so he acquiesces: "I know."

He feels helpless, but it's a short-lived state of being because suddenly the herd of reporters is converging on them and he can see an opportunity before him. Bobby Goren may not have been able to react quickly enough to help his partner when Chase Slaughter was shot, but his reflexes are razor-sharp now and he instantly moves his bulk between them and her, becoming a human shield to protect her from the questions they hurl like barbs as he moves her quickly down the stairs to their waiting SUV. If he could pick her up and carry her, he would, but she manages to stay with him somehow, her body curved into the shelter of his shoulder firmly enough that he knows she trusts him to help her this time. She trusts him to remember how fragile she is at this moment and he slams the car door soundly once she's inside, then makes his way to the driver's side, still shoving reporters out of his path.

As he assumes his position in the driver's seat, however, he realizes his error, for in his haste to pull Eames to safety, he forgot that she always drives. He also forgot that she is a good foot shorter than he is and that particular omission from his memory has placed him in a very uncomfortable place – literally. His knees are jammed into the dashboard, the steering wheel practically cutting off his wind and there is no way that he can possibly operate the vehicle. And once this information has sorted itself out in his mind, he realizes that he must look like an awkward cartoon character – all limbs and jutting angles gone askew.

It's too much to hope that Eames hasn't noticed, however, and he can feel her eyes on him while he fumbles for the seat control and feels the circulation return to his legs as the seat slides back to a comfortable distance. He doesn't dare look at her, though – the guilt for his earlier neglect of her is still too fresh and he doesn't dare meet her eyes for fear that the coldness she unleashed earlier is still there.

He is adjusting the steering column and starting the engine when he remembers that she doesn't hold grudges where he's concerned, a memory triggered by the sound of her laughter coming from his right side. He glances sideways at her as he pulls smoothly into traffic, noting from the corner of his eye the exact moment that the tears cease to be those of amusement and begin to show the fear and anger she experienced at the moment she fired her weapon.

Sometimes he forgets that she can cry.

He reaches across the seat and rests a gentle hand on her shoulder, feeling her shake beneath him and kicking himself one more time for not staying with her as Chase Slaughter fell. But he can't beat himself up over it forever, he knows – especially because he'll no doubt forget again (after some time has passed) that she isn't a superhero, that she bleeds like everyone else.

She makes it easy, after all – she's strong and vibrant and never backs down from a fight – and he supposes that if he didn't have amnesia where she's concerned, he'd probably spend the majority of his time worrying about her and not concentrating on the work that he does so well. So maybe his being forgetful is a good thing for both of them. Maybe his being forgetful is what keeps their partnership – and their friendship – strong, because as long as he forgets that there is a real woman underneath the solid veneer that Eames wears with such confidence, he is free to be the type of detective and person that he needs to be – for both of their sakes.

For now he'll keep his hand on her shoulder and sit with her while she cries, waiting until she indicates that she's ready to face the world again. It doesn't matter how long, because once they set foot back inside One Police Plaza, this tender moment will become just a memory. And if Bobby Goren is going to continue to be successful in his career, he'll need to forget; amnesia is what keeps him going.

There's always that small part of him, however, that would really like to forget to forget, just this once.

FIN (For real this time.)


End file.
